Don't Forget About Me
by Believe4Ever
Summary: "I can't handle it," I murmured as the tears I'd been holding in finally washed into my eyes. "I just can't handle it if it happens, Harry." "If what happens?" "If he forgets about me."
1. Chapter 1

**I'm sure you all know by now how I write depressing fan fictions. Well I was having awful feels because I read sad fan fictions so I write this . . . Well I can only hope I get a review out of it. My writing is only as good as the research I did on the subject so . . . There. Please read and review.**

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It had started out so simply.

Sherlock had been losing his balance. It had been only on occasion. He would catch himself before he fell and pause for a moment, shake his head, and continue walking perfectly fine. I had thought nothing of it. But then I noticed that he started walking differently. Instead of his swift and narrow, brisk walking, he would walk slower with his feet spread wider apart as he walked. I had confronted him on it but he had said it was nothing, that I shouldn't worry.

Soon he could barely sign his name on the checks for the bank. His signature, which was usually tall and fancy, became wobbly and looped. I questioned him about it and it was always the same excuse. "My hand is cramped, John, go away." The checks had still been accepted so I just made sure he ate some food with more vitamins. I thought it was nothing.

But then his speech became impaired.

We had been at a crime scene and Sherlock had just inspected a mutilated woman—fingernails ripped off, hair cut short, tongue sliced off, causing her to choke on her own blood. It was most likely a deranged psychopath. Sherlock looked at Lestrade and began to explain his findings, but his speech wasn't as quick paced and showy as it usually was. He tripped over his words and actually stopped, moving his tongue in his mouth like it was cotton, and tried to speak again. The next time he spoke slowly and annunciated.

That's when I decided to take him to the hospital.

He had fought with me and insisted that he was fine, but I didn't listen to him. I had forced him through the doors and met with our usual physician, Dr. Marco. He was a kind, elder man who had thinning hair and wore glasses. We sat in one of the rooms and I explained what had been going on with Sherlock: the issues with balance, the slurred speech, the cramps that accompanied writing. In fact, Sherlock had admitted that it wasn't just cramps that had made it difficult to write. His hands had also simply refused to listen to him. He had also mentioned that swallowing was a bit difficult, like his throat was slightly bloated.

Dr. Marco listened patiently. After a while he double checked when the symptoms started. A couple weeks ago. He asked how often they happened. Several times a week. The obvious question of if they had gotten worse arose. Of course they had.

Finally he asked about Sherlock's diet and use of alcohol. Sherlock told him how he ate a few times a week, which didn't surprise Dr. Marco. The physician was well aware of Sherlock's strange eating habits and also knew that he was healthy, even with the strange nutrition habits. Dr. Marco asked about any medication, in which Sherlock answered that he was taking nothing. After that the physician went through the routine checkup of checking blood pressure, pulse, temperature, he listened to the lungs, and other procedures to make sure of Sherlock's overall health. At the end he even took a blood sample. "Just in case," he said.

When we left Dr. Marco said he'd call us when he figures out what exactly is going on with Sherlock. He wanted to make sure with the blood test. We weren't exactly sure what he meant by that, but I was sure to stay close to Sherlock and I refused to let him take another case in which he would need to leave the flat.

It was a day later that Dr. Marco called us back saying that he would like Sherlock in for a few more tests. I brought him in and soon he was given a variety of tests. First they tested him on his reflexes, muscles, coordination, sensation, eye movement, and his speech. Next he was given some genetic testing, a mini-mental state exam, a mini-cog test, and a mood assessment. I remembered that in the mini-cog Sherlock was told to remember the words "apple", "book" and "pencil". About five minutes later the doctor asked him to repeat the words. Sherlock had stated pencil and book with ease and paused for a moment before finally saying apple.

Somewhere in the middle of the mood assessment I confronted Dr. Marco and asked him what all the tests were for. He had been quiet for a moment before giving me a sympathetic smile and said that he would tell both me and Sherlock together when they were positive of what was going on.

After the small tests they asked Sherlock if he could participate in an MRI scan. That was when Sherlock's patience hit the end and he refused to cooperate anymore. He demanded that he be admitted to go home and that the tests were ridiculous. I eventually calmed him down enough to tell him that if he did the scan then I would get him on Lestrade's next case with no complaint. His eyes had lit up for a moment and he finally agreed.

They laid him down on the table after he removed his watch and belt and any other metal objects. It was something about strong magnetic fields. When he was finally settled the table moved him into the tube-like scanner. I stayed in the room with him and took off any metal objects as well. They told me that I should make sure he stayed still during the scan.

The procedure took about twenty minutes and halfway through I had to tell Sherlock to knock it off because his feet were getting restless. He had mumbled an apology and stopped. Finally it was over and he was moved out of the scanner. Dr. Marco told us that he will inform us with the results soon. When I reminded him that he said similar the day before, he assured us that he would have the complete diagnosis in a few days.

We had gone home. I had done as promised to Sherlock and got him on Lestrade's next case, which, thankfully, didn't involve a lot of walking around. Sherlock's walking had gotten even worse and I had to stay with more and more to catch him if he started to stumble. Lestrade either didn't notice Sherlock's trouble or didn't mention it; either way I was thankful I didn't have to explain, since I didn't really know what was going on either.

Sure enough, a few days later, Dr. Marco had called us, telling him that he had the diagnosis. We went into the hospital for the third time that week. Finally he came in and sat down in a seat across from us, giving us gentle smiles.

"Was there anyone else you wanted to have with you during the diagnosis?" the physician asked Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head.

"John is sufficient."

"All right." He took a breath and exhaled slowly. "Sherlock, you have Spinocerebellar Ataxia 17."

My flatmate's face soured in an expression of confusion, something he doesn't wear often. "Would you mind clarifying?"

Dr. Marco looked down at the ground. "It's a genetic disorder that must have been passed down to you by your parents. The general disorder is actually fairly common. It slowly degenerates your ability to use your motor skills."

Sherlock blinked but didn't show any emotion. I glanced at him and then back at Dr. Marco before saying, "What exactly is going to happen to him?"

"The symptoms include loss of balance, difficulty with motor control such as writing, dysarthria, dysphagia, oscillopsia . . ."

Sherlock glanced at me and I muttered, "Slurred speech, trouble swallowing, involuntary eye movements . . ."

Dr. Marco nodded. "It's possible that there will be some upset in the bladder and bowel functions, depression, anxiety, you may lose feeling or strength in your arms or legs, there might be memory loss—"

"I'm going to lose my memory?" Sherlock cut in.

"We're not sure." The physician looks at Sherlock kindly. "But it may cause dementia."

"Dementia?" I cried incredulously.

"Early onset dementia is possible with the type of ataxia Sherlock has."

Dread erupted in the pit of my stomach. Dementia. Was it possible for someone of Sherlock's age to get such a disease? Yes, of course it was. Dr. Marco said it was a possibility and he was better versed in this than me. Still, I couldn't believe that Sherlock could have something that could cause such a thing.

"Is there treatment for this—ataxia, is it?"

"Yes, ataxia. And unfortunately there isn't a known cure for it. It's thought to be an irreversible disease. There are some treatments that can quell some of the symptoms, but the actual disease won't go away." My hand squeezed the side of my chair. Dr. Marco gave another one of his sympathetic smiles and handed me a small stack of papers. "This is more information on the disease, where you can get some care services; there are a few support groups in there too."

I mumbled a thank you as I took the papers into my hands.

"Sherlock," Dr. Marco started off again, looking back at my flatmate. "Since this is a genetic disorder, and the symptoms can start at any age, I would like it if the rest of your immediate family comes in for testing. Your mother, father, siblings—"

"My mother was murdered when I was younger and my father died a few years ago," Sherlock retorted bluntly. "I'll be sure to let my brother know of my condition and advise him to come in."

Dr. Marco gave a slow nod, seemingly uncomfortable with Sherlock's straightforwardness on the subject. Soon after the two of us left.

The cab ride back to the flat was silent. I looked through the symptoms list of both dementia and ataxia. For just ataxia there would be muscle cramps, reduced feeling in the hands and feet, slower eye movement, vertigo, migraines, cognitive problems, and a slow loss of vision that can end in blindness. For dementia, the ability to learn and reason, and even remember past events would be reduced. It would be harder for him to remember his thoughts, what he was doing, and other things.

The more I read the worse I felt. There was no cure for this. I couldn't help him.

The two of us walked into 221B and Sherlock went to his chemistry set in the kitchen. I edged behind him unsurely, still looking back at the papers. I said nothing as he began conducting an experiment on who-knows-what.

"How long are you just going to stand there?" Sherlock called without looking up. I flinched a little at his sudden voice.

"Shouldn't we talk about this?" I finally answered meekly.

"Talk about what? I have a mental disorder, John. There's nothing to talk about."

It didn't make sense. A mental disorder. How could _Sherlock Holmes _have a mental disorder?

"But, Sherlock—"

"John." He looked up from his experiment and stared at me with a hard look. "I don't know what you expect from me. Should I cry? Bawl over something I cannot control? If there is no cure then I would like to continue with what I love until I am unable to do it any longer."

I sighed and set the papers down on the armchair. "Fine. I'll tell Lestrade—"

"You will not."

"What?"

"I will inform my brother of my condition so he can go and get checked as well, as I had told Dr. Marco, but I do not want you to be telling the Scotland Yard or anyone else about what is going on with me. I don't want their sympathy and treating me as if I'm going to die tomorrow. I'd prefer it if Lestrade didn't have to take my 'condition' into account before he called me about a case."

I looked at Sherlock, who looked back, until he finally looked away, back to his chemistry experiment. I gave a sigh and sat down in the armchair, flipping through the papers for the third time.

About an hour later my phone started to ring. I answered it to find Harry's voice on the other end. She had come into town and was wondering if we could get a drink. I convinced her to just meet me for some coffee in Speedy's outside our flat and she finally agreed.

"I'm going out," I told Sherlock as I stood. He just gave a mumble as he sniffed some mixture in a beaker. I sighed as I left the flat.

I hadn't seen Harry in years; not since before Afghanistan. Even so we had been close as children and she always knew what I was feeling. That's why the moment she walked into the café and caught sight of me, she walked up and asked me what was wrong.

"It's Sherlock, Harry," I admitted as I sunk into a chair.

"You mean that flatmate of yours?" She took the seat across the table from me. "What's wrong with him?"

"He . . . He has some kind of genetic disorder." I looked at her, chewing my lip to keep the pain out of my eyes. "He might get dementia."

"Dementia? You're kidding. I thought someone like Sherlock was immune to something like that."

"Obviously not."

She reached over and took my hand in hers. "Everything will be fine, John."

I looked her straight in the eyes, feeling my lip starting to quiver. "How can you be sure?"

Her gaze dropped from mine and instead focused on the sugar packets on the table. "I can't."

We sat there for a few minutes, in silence. Occasionally she'd squeeze my hand, trying to be comforting, but I stayed unresponsive. I didn't even know what to do. I wanted to tell Mrs. Hudson but it would break her heart. I wanted to tell Lestrade but Sherlock had told me not to. I wanted to curl up and cry but I knew that it would accomplish nothing.

"You've been with him too long," Harry finally whispered. I looked at her.

"What?"

"With Sherlock. You've been around him far too much."

Anger bubbled in me. What the hell was she implying? "So?"

"So you've forgotten that I'm your sister and that you shouldn't be afraid to cry in front of me."

I blinked, staring at her. a while back I had decided that I would stop talking to Harry because she had lost control of herself and drowned herself in her drinking. I had tried to help but she'd refused so I had decided I wouldn't take help from her. But I needed help now and she was the closest person right now.

"I can't handle it," I murmured as the tears I'd been holding in finally washed into my eyes. "I just can't handle it if it happens, Harry."

"If what happens?"

"If he forgets about me."

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**There will be more chapters to come. Please review with your thoughts!**


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks passed before more symptoms began to surface.

"I can't feel my foot," Sherlock groaned as he dragged himself to his feet and started walking around the room, his silk bathrobe trailing behind him like a cape.

I looked up from the book I was reading. "That's normal."

"Normal? John, losing feeling in one's limb for no reason is not 'normal'!"

"It is if you have ataxia."

He gave a huff as he dropped back onto the couch, propping his foot up onto the table.

I put the book down on the arm of the chair. "It's not hurting, right?"

"No. It's numb."

"No cramps?"

"What part of 'numb' can you not grasp?"

"Right, right, sorry."

I lifted my book from its perch and continued reading. A few moments later my flatmate said, "I contacted Mycroft about my condition. He should be going in to check if he has the disorder right now."

"That's good."

"John."

I looked up and found Sherlock staring at me. "Yes?"

"Does this condition shorten my life span?"

My stomach did a double take and I had to swallow the nausea that had suddenly cropped up. "Ataxia doesn't, as far as I can tell . . ."

"But?"

"But if you do develop dementia than typically patients die four and half years after diagnosis."

His head slowly turned away so he stared up at the ceiling. "I see."

I shifted on the chair uncomfortably, taking a breath. "Are you sure you still don't want to talk about this?"

"What do you want me to discuss?" He sat up. "Should I cry that I have this strange disorder? Should I worry every day for that day in which I will develop dementia? What do you expect me to _do _John?"

"I . . . I don't know . . ."

"Then stop saying such idiotic things!"

"R . . . Right . . ." I shoved my nose back into my book, not wanting to look back at Sherlock. All I could think of was all of the symptoms that were going to pop up in who knows how long.

()()()

"Finally, a half decent case," Sherlock sighed with a grin as we stared at the crime scene. The walls had the word "Gluttony" written across in blood. On the ground was a dead overweight man with his chest cut open and a pool of blood around his body. This was the third body that had been found in as many weeks. The past two had different kinds of people with "Lust" and "Envy" written similarly on the walls of where the other victims had been found.

"So the Seven Deadly Sins?" I offered. "Lust, envy, and gluttony are three of the seven. So four more are going to die?"

"It would appear so," Lestrade admitted. "What do you think, Sherlock? Psychopath?"

"That seems the most likely answer." Sherlock leaned in closer to look at the bloodied letters, then stooped down over the body, observing carefully. "Have you found connections with the other two victims besides the fact that they represented the word written?"

"No, not yet. As far as we know they didn't know each other in the slightest." Lestrade sighed. "Like you said, it's probably a psychopath. Maybe he's just picking victims off the street?"

"There's always a kind of connection! Even if they lived on the same street that's better than nothing." Sherlock stood and frowned, trying to concentrate. "All three victims were killed in the same manner . . ."

Donovan appeared out of nowhere, giving an annoyed glare. "Yeah, we got that."

"Is there a reason you're butting in, Donovan?" Sherlock gave her a fixed stare before looking back to Lestrade. "What I was trying to say is that even though they are killed in the same manner, the same person didn't kill all three."

"What?" I said, along with the DI.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "How do you know this?"

A long smile spread across my flatmate's face. "Isn't it obvious? You can clearly see by the wounds that—"

Sherlock stopped speaking and his face scrunched up. His hand went to his forehead, rubbing it like he had a headache.

"Sherlock?" I murmured worriedly.

"What's wrong with 'im?" Donovan asked bitterly.

Sherlock breathed in deeply through his nose. "Just . . . Just a migraine . . ." He gives a pained moan as his other palm reached up and pressed hard against his forehead. A shaky breath expelled from him and his fingers gripped his hair.

"Oi, you all right?" Lestrade looked concerned.

"J-John . . .!" Sherlock seethed, starting to sink to the ground. I stepped forward and gripped his arm, helping him sit down. I saw Lestrade and Donovan staring with surprise out of the corner of my eye.

"We're going home, okay?" I murmured. I knew it was bad when he just gave a nod and didn't protest about staying to do his work.

My hand gripped his arm and tried to get him to stand up but he gave a moan and shook his head slightly. One of his hands covered his mouth like he was afraid he was going to throw up. I bit my lip nervously.

"You have to just walk to the street, Sherlock," I urged, forcing him to his feet. He leaned on me greatly and I struggled trying to hold up his weight. We started to head out of the building and I called over my shoulder to Lestrade, "I'll call you when he feels better."

"But what's wrong with him?" The DI replied, trying to follow.

"Just the flu, I'm sure. Really, no need to worry. We'll just have to take a few days off . . ."

"But—"

"I'm fine, Lestrade," Sherlock gasped, apparently trusting his body not to dispose of any bile while he spoke. "Text me if you need something."

He didn't look too convinced, but Lestrade finally nodded and headed back to the crime scene. I managed to get Sherlock to the street and I hailed down a taxi. He collapsed in the back seat, still holding his head. For a moment I wondered if I should take him to the hospital rather than go home.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock gasped, as though he read my indecision.

The cabbie glanced at us in the rearview mirror but began driving. Halfway there Sherlock finally released his head and fell back against the seat. I grasped his hand comfortingly and he squeezed back, giving me a faint smile.

"Well, that episode passed . . ." he whispered as he closed his eyes.

As I stared at him all I could think about was how this would be the first of many.

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